


Just Follow My Smile

by michaelandthegodsquad



Series: Irresistible (The Filth Verse) [2]
Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Play, Anal Plug, BDSM, Begging, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Collars, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Facials, Interrupted scene, M/M, Master/Pet, Pet Names, Pet Play, Rimming, Rutting, Sensory Deprivation, Subdrop, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelandthegodsquad/pseuds/michaelandthegodsquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys tries to get on the couch, maybe sit with Jack’s feet in his lap or tucked under his thigh, but as soon as his butt touches the cushion Jack clicks his tongue like one would at an animal and uses his feet to push Rhys onto the floor.</p><p>“Uh uh, no pets on the furniture. You know better than that, kitten.” He doesn’t even look up from his tablet.</p><p>---</p><p>OR: just straight up filth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Follow My Smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sin Squad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sin+Squad).



> Dedicated to everyone on the Sin Squad - [lelelego](http://lelelego.tumblr.com/), [scootsaboot](http://scootsaboot.tumblr.com/), [prettyboycannibal](http://prettyboycannibal.tumblr.com/), [antisorum](http://antisorum.tumblr.com/), [damnhyperions](http://damnhyperions.tumblr.com/), [verulamion](http://verulamion.tumblr.com/), [knifetwisters](http://knifetwisters.tumblr.com/), [sleazyfemmedad](http://sleazyfemmedad.tumblr.com/), and [wendigodye](http://wendigodye.tumblr.com/) \- without whose endless love, support/enabling, and absolute sin, none of this would be possible. Y'all are the real MVPs. 
> 
> Thanks _especially_ to [damnhyperions](http://damnhyperions.tumblr.com/) for the beta work!  
>   
>  Now onto the filth.

There’s a couch in Jack’s home office, sleek with clean lines and sharp angled edges, upholstered in smooth dark gray fabric. It’s modern and streamlined and looks, much like the rest of Jack’s furniture, too stylish to actually be comfortable. Rhys knows that’s not true, having fallen asleep on it too many times to count, waiting until the late hours for Jack to finish his work before eventually waking up in their bed. It’s a good couch, really, one that Rhys has grown quite fond of since he moved in.

Today, though, Rhys is not allowed on it.

He’d woken up alone this morning, but that’s nothing new. The house had been unusually quiet when he’d showered, put on his lazy day clothes, and had a quick breakfast, but even that’s not unheard of. He finds Jack sprawled out on the sofa, back against the arm, in just lounge pants and his glasses, face looking somewhat solemn as he does work on his tablet.

Rhys tries to get on the couch, maybe sit with Jack’s feet in his lap or tucked under his thigh, but as soon as his butt touches the cushion Jack clicks his tongue like one would at an animal and uses his feet to push Rhys onto the floor.

“Uh uh, no pets on the furniture. You know better than that, kitten.” He doesn’t even look up from his tablet.

And Rhys hasn’t been awake that long so he’s confused for a few seconds but a closer look at Jack shows he’s not as relaxed as he first seemed—tensed shoulders, tight frown, furrowed brows, tired looking eyes, hair mussed like he’s been pulling at it, the nearly frantic way he taps at his tablet. Still, he’s quiet, and probably will be for the rest of the day.

Jack’s having one of his bad days, then. Rhys doesn’t know how long Jack has been awake, but he’s willing to bet that he didn’t sleep very much last night, and that the sun rose on Jack pacing back and forth in this office, with frazzled nerves and unexplained anger, the feeling that he was losing control but unsure why or of what, for that matter.

Rhys nods, crawling across the floor towards Jack’s end of the couch, curling his legs underneath him and kneeling on his side, sitting quietly and waiting for Jack’s instruction. He looks up at Jack and realizes that he hasn’t even shaved today, stubble dusting over his jawline and just a bit up his cheek, interrupted only by the hardened skin of the scar.

Jack catches him staring, flicking his eyes over him briefly. Rhys looks away quickly, diverting his eyes to the way the sunlight filters in through the blinds and shines in slats across the hardwood floor.

After a minute, Jack asks, “You shower already, kitten?” once again not looking up from his tablet. Rhys nods. “Breakfast?” Another nod.

Jack nods to himself then. “Go put your arm on.” This time he actually turns away from his tablet to look at Rhys, eyes raking over him from the still-somewhat-wet hair on his head, down his long bare legs, pausing briefly only to eye the threadbare yellow Hyperion sweatshirt Rhys is wearing with his shorts, the way the stretched out collar hangs off his right shoulder. “Maybe do some leg stretches while you’re at it.” Then he goes right back to his tablet.

Rhys feels a flush rising on his cheeks but obeys, standing and heading back to their bedroom. He unplugs his arm from its charging dock and drifts through process of connecting it, not even really thinking about it as it turns on and he goes through a few basic motions to make sure everything is in working order. Then he starts the leg stretches—he’s not sure what Jack will have him do today, and the thought of it—as well as the not knowing—has him equal parts nervous and excited. He does every stretch he can think of and does a few for his arms and shoulders while he’s at it before rejoining Jack in his office.

Jack hasn’t moved much, except to plant his feet on the floor instead of having his legs sprawled out on the couch—still wearing the same thing, still on his tablet, his knees spread wide. Rhys walks in and stands between Jack’s legs, arms folded behind his back patiently.

After a few minutes Jack finally looks up at Rhys over his glasses and locks his tablet, setting it next to him on the couch. He just looks up at Rhys for a minute before reaching for him, Jack’s hands on his narrow hips as he urges him forward, until Rhys’s shins bump up against the couch. He runs his hands under Rhys's shirt to touch him, squeezing and sometimes pinching everywhere—his hips, his thighs, his side, his stomach, and for just a moment, his nipples, which makes Rhys suck in a sharp breath through his nose. His fingers curl in the waistband of Rhy’s shorts and pull them down to his ankles, only the long hem of Jack’s sweatshirt keeping him covered now. Rhys steps out of his shorts and Jack puts them aside. His face is apathetic at best, and if Rhys didn’t know better (if he didn’t know _Jack_ better) he’d say the way that Jack was looking at him and touching him was almost clinical.

But Rhys does know better. And he knows all the signals too, without either of them having to say a word. Jack twirls a finger and Rhys turns around. He taps at the inside of his knee and Rhys repositions his feet to stand shoulder width apart. Jack lays a big, splayed hand on the small of his back and presses, and Rhys bends, not stopping until the pressure stops. He’s bent nearly in half, flushing as he imagines what he must look like.

Jack lets out a noncommittal sound. “Hands around your ankles,” he says gruffly, quietly, and Rhys complies. He understands the leg stretches now, feeling the way his position pulls at the muscles on the backs of his calves and thighs.

Jack puts his hands on each of Rhys’s cheeks, working his fingers into the muscles and pulling them apart, thumb gently tracing his rim. Rhys gasps a bit but tries not to make any sounds. Jack lays a gentle slap on his hip, says “stay,” then swings his leg around him to stand and walk out of the office. Rhys keeps his position and takes deep breaths as his leg muscles begin to burn.

When Jack returns a few minutes later Rhys tries to look up at him, barely catching a glimpse at the items Jack is holding when he says “Eyes down, kitten,” and Rhys goes back to looking at his own feet and the grain of the hardwood floor.

Jack drops whatever he’s carrying onto the couch, then resumes his position sitting behind Rhys. Rhys hears familiar sound of the cap on the bottle of lube being popped open and he swallows as Jack says, “Bend your knees,” which Rhys does gratefully.

At eye-level with Rhys’s ass now, Jack pulls one of his cheeks aside, his warm breath ghosting over his hole. One slicked finger traces his rim before dipping in slowly, and Rhys sighs at the familiar feeling, relaxing into it, just as he does when a second finger nudges at him not long after. Not until those fingers begin to scissor apart, stretching Rhys before they begin to curl and tug slightly at his rim does Rhys hiss at the feeling, then bite his lip to stifle a groan as Jack leans in and licks a wet stripe over his hole. Jack’s tongue moves smoothly into him, strong and wet beside his blunt fingers, which continue to scissor and stretch to accommodate him. Rhys’s fingers tighten around his ankles painfully; he clenches his teeth and hums as quietly as he can, still not sure if he’s allowed to make any sounds.

As if reading his mind, Jack pulls away and, after blowing cool air over Rhys’s exposed wet hole, casually says, “You can make noise, kitten.” He continues moving and curling his fingers into Rhys, his tone light and casual like they’re discussing the goddamn grocery list, adding “Just don’t get obnoxious about it,” as a third slicked finger slips in beside the first two, his thumb drifting down to rub circles into Rhys’s perineum. Rhys gasps and whispers out a shaky “Thank you, sir,” his legs beginning to tremble.

Rhys sighs in relief when Jack’s fingers withdraw, only to whimper loudly when Jack’s tongue resumes its previous position, this time accompanied by his lips sucking gently around his hole. His tongue curls inside Rhys, thick and wet, his teeth occasionally nipping at the rim as Rhys struggles to remain upright and not think about the obscene slurping sounds coming from Jack’s mouth. When Jack finally pulls away, Rhys takes deep, heaving breaths, already steeling himself for whatever is next.

He barely hears the lube being opened again, nor the wet sound of it being spread over something. The next thing Rhys notices is the blunt press of something at his hole; he clenches instinctively at first, yelping when Jack slaps his hip sharply. “Open up,” he says firmly, and Rhys takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax, allowing whatever it is to slip easily into his loosened hole. It’s a plug, as it turns out, certainly not the biggest one they own, but he still groans quietly at the way it eases in and barely presses against his prostate. After it’s settled, Jack leans back into the couch and Rhys hears a familiar sigh that tells him Jack is touching himself, probably through his lounge pants since he doesn’t quite hear the sound of skin on skin. Rhys hums and bites his lip.

“Stand.” Rhys obeys, legs still shaking as he rolls out his shoulders. “You may wanna stretch your legs again,” Jack says, tone firm but altogether not sounding too interested in whether Rhys does or not. He takes the advice anyway, flushing as he feels the plug shift inside him, moaning quietly as it presses against his prostate when he stretches his hamstrings. He feels Jack’s eyes on him the entire time, only adding to the arousal curling low in his pelvis.

When it seems Rhys is done, Jack gives him his shorts, and Rhys puts them back on while he grabs a throw pillow from the couch and sets it on the floor next to the desk. He snaps his fingers and points to it, and Rhys shuffles over to kneel on it, not blocking access to the desk or drawers but still close by. “Hands on your thighs,” Jack orders, and Rhys complies, finding it difficult to have his hands this close to his dick without permission to touch. Jack runs a hand through Rhys’s hair and he sighs, moving into the touch.

Rhys isn’t sure where the bandanna comes from, but Jack is suddenly moving his hand away from his face to fold it up into a strip as he says, “I’m gonna blindfold you now.” He states it like a fact but Rhys knows Jack is actually asking if that’s okay, and he nods, taking one last look at Jack before his eyes are covered. “Now. You stay there, hands don’t move. Quiet as you can, no speaking unless you’re spoken to. Clear?” Rhys nods. “Gimme a color, Rhys.”

Rhys swallows and replies “Green,” quietly.

“Good kitten,” Jack says, a hand in Rhys’s hair again, and Rhys preens.

Jack moves quietly around the room for a bit, presumably putting things away, but leaves soon after. The door must still be open, though, because Rhys can hear him in the hall. In fact, he seems to be making more noise than usual as he moves around the house, and Rhys smiles to himself. He hears the shower turn on, beginning to wonder just how long Jack expects him to sit here. After a bit Rhys gets bored but it’s nothing unbearable. His erection begins to flag in Jack’s absence, and he settles into the pillow a little more comfortably, knees spreading a bit wider as he flexes his fingers and toes. If Jack wants to test his patience, Rhys is ready to wait.

When Jack eventually returns, Rhys thinks he must be dressed, judging by the sound of his boots thumping against the floor. Rhys had not realized until now how much he liked the sound, the rhythmic thud of Jack’s coolly confident stride, the way it comforts and excites him all at once. He hears the wheels of Jack’s chair rolling across the floor as he pulls it away from the desk and sits down. His hand settles into Rhys’s hair briefly, scratching gently at his scalp. Rhys sits up straighter, sighing as he nuzzles into the touch, ready for whatever Jack is going to dish out, listening for his orders.

But he doesn’t get orders; instead he gets Jack’s hand pulling away from him, followed by the barely-there whir of the computer starting up. He hears Jack type for a few minutes and then the beep of an ECHO communicator as he calls his secretary. Rhys deflates, realizing that he’s going to be here for longer than he thought, but tries not to show it. Patience, he reminds himself. About three phone calls later, Jack checks in again, a hand tilting his chin up. Rhys’s color is still green. It goes on.

It’s…not bad, per se. It’s periods of Jack’s voice, strong and familiar, followed by periods of Jack’s fingers tapping away at his keyboard—also strong and familiar. Admittedly Rhys is restless at times, flexing the muscles in his legs when they fall asleep, fighting the urge to tap his fingers against his thighs. Still, it’s not so bad, and after a while, Rhys isn’t sure just how long, he feels himself begin to relax, closing his eyes behind the blindfold and sinking further into the cushion beneath his knees.

That is, until Jack pauses his typing; evidently he’s seen something on his computer that he doesn’t like, judging the way he growls “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?” before grabbing his ECHO communicator and tapping at it harshly. “Get Henderson on the line,” he barks at someone, tapping his foot impatiently while he waits. Rhys sits completely still, afraid to breathe too loudly in Jack’s direction. Jack doesn’t quite yell at Henderson, and that’s what makes Rhys the most nervous; his tone is just as threatening as it would be if he _was_ yelling, if not more so. Rhys squirms uncomfortably; people are always afraid of Handsome Jack when he’s shouting and throwing people out of airlocks, but _this_ is the Jack they should be afraid of: the Jack that seethes quietly and plots.

Whatever the problem was, it’s being dealt with already, and Jack ends the conversation abruptly, but…the tension is still there. Rhys can still hear it in the way Jack taps his foot on the floor, drums at the desk with his fingers, or taps just a bit too harshly at his keyboard, the way he huffs every so often with the memory of whatever it was. Rhys swallows, feeling helpless in his position and hyper aware, strangely susceptible to the anger still radiating off Jack in waves.

It’s not as easy, after that. Even as Jack begins to calm down, taking deep breaths (and probably pinching at the bridge of his nose, if Rhys knows him at all), Rhys feels his anxiety building. He breathes deeply and tries to pinpoint sensations to ground him—the cushion against his knees, his hands on his thighs, the blindfold tied snugly around his head—but finds that none of it is quite enough, which only intensifies the feeling. He tries to stay still like he was told but he finds himself fidgeting, fingers drumming against his thighs and heels knocking together. Jack is on the phone again, still sounding vaguely annoyed; Rhys frowns and hums, his discomfort mounting.

Jack pauses his conversation, the other person still droning on. “Color, Rhys?”

And Rhys, for the first time today, has to think about it. He wants to say green but the tight, anxious feeling in his chest doesn’t feel like green should. He hesitates and licks his lips before mumbling, “…yellow.”

Jack pauses for just a second, quickly saying “Yeah, sure, whatever” to his communicator before ending his call. He gets out of his chair and kneels in front of Rhys, pushing the blindfold up onto his forehead and getting his hands on Rhys’s face. “You alright? Something hurt?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he drops his hands down to Rhys’s shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscles.

Rhys nods, sniffling. “Yeah, I just—too much, not enough. Sorry,” he says, shaking his head.

“Hey, no,” Jack says as he presses a kiss to Rhys’s temple. “You’re doing good, kiddo, okay? Daddy’s got you, you’re fine.” Rhys leans forward and rests his head against Jack’s shoulder, inhaling his scent while Jack pets his hair.

“You wanna stop?” Jack asks after a while, and Rhys shakes his head. “Words, Rhys.”

“No. Wanna keep going.”

“Want your collar?”

Rhys pauses, considering. “…yes.”

Jack leaves the room for a moment to retrieve the collar, kept safely in its box in their bedroom. It’s a simple one, soft black leather with a front strap, an o-ring dangling off the front; the buckle in the back is secured with a silver padlock, engraved with _HJ._ Rhys tilts his head back to allow Jack to slide it around his neck, then tilts his head forward for Jack to fit the padlock into place, listening to the way it closes with a quiet _snick._ Rhys lets out a relaxed sigh at the sound, the leather fitting snugly around his neck, feeling his heartbeat already beginning to slow. “Thank you,” he says quietly, to which Jack responds only by slipping a finger underneath the leather and tugging gently.

“Can I put the blindfold back on?”

Rhys pauses a minute, then nods, whispers, “Yeah.”

Jack slips the bandana back down over his eyes, resting a hand in Rhys’s hair. “Color?”

“Green.”

“Good kitten.”

After that it’s actually…okay. Easier to ground himself with the pressure of the collar at his throat, the way it presses into his Adam’s apple as he swallows. It helps that when Jack gets back to work, he seems much less high-strung, no longer making any calls and instead recording some sort of ECHO log (about what, Rhys couldn’t say), and occasionally he scratches a bit at Rhys’s scalp.

Slowly Rhys relaxes, feeling boneless on his knees as he lets the calm haze envelop his thoughts, Jack’s voice droning comfortingly in the background, an anchor to keep him tethered to home.

He doesn’t even really know how long it’s been when Jack checks in again, and he doesn’t hear at first, actually, but Jack puts a hand in his hair and asks again. “Rhys? Color?” and Rhys maybe smiles a little bit, very softly, and nuzzles into Jack’s palm, says “Green,” almost slurred but not quite, definitely more drawn out than usual.

Rhys thinks Jack might sound fond when he says, “That’s real good, kitten. You wanna play with Daddy a little bit?” And Rhys nods, distantly noting that Jack sounds better than he did this morning, more present, less in his own head.

The computer powers down, as does the ECHO communicator, and he hears Jack get out of his chair, rolling it back to the desk. He moves to stand in front of Rhys and for a long moment he doesn’t say anything; Rhys imagines him standing stoically, looking down at Rhys with his hands poised on his belt buckle, the way he did in those posters Rhys used to keep in his office, and he shivers, gasping at the way the plug shifts at the movement, feeling himself growing hard again.

Then there are two fingers pressed to Rhys’s lips, which he opens immediately, letting them in to rest on his tongue before sealing his lips around them again and sucking, laving his tongue over them, just barely dragging his teeth over the knuckle. Jack lets out a breath and presses them further back on Rhys’s tongue, fingertips just barely working into Rhys’s throat, and Rhys moans around them. His tongue is suddenly too thick in his mouth as he licks at Jack’s fingers desperately, his own hands digging into his thighs. Jack withdraws his fingers and leaves Rhys panting.

Jack watches Rhys again for a moment while Rhys waits, and the next thing he hears is Jack’s belt being unbuckled. Rhys mewls and then bites his lip at the sound, listens for Jack’s zipper, the rustle of clothes as Jack pushes his pants down a bit.

His lips part, waiting for the press of Jack’s cock, but it doesn’t come. Instead he hears a quiet sigh, followed by the wet sounds of Jack stroking himself inches from Rhys’s face. Rhys actually whines at that, his back arching and the plug shifting again inside him.

Jack chuckles at that, continuing to work himself. “You want it, kitten?” Rhys nods frantically, his mouth falling open, ready and waiting. “You been thinking about it, huh? I can tell. You look so desperate for it already. So hard. Your pretty little dick all wet?” Rhys nods again, and Jack insists, “C’mon, kitten, Daddy asked you a question.”

Rhys whines. “Yes, Daddy. My—” He pauses, swallowing. “My dick is all wet for you.”

Jack sucks in a breath through his teeth, still working his cock as he says, “Show me, kitten. Pull your shirt up.” And it’s not even _his_ shirt, it’s Jack’s, but with shaking hands he pulls the hem of the Hyperion sweatshirt up from where it covers his hips and sure enough, there’s a wet spot at the front of his shorts, a darker blue than the area around it, growing steadily.

“ _Fuck_ , kitten. You’ve been so patient, waiting for Daddy on your knees like a good boy.” Rhys groans at that and, without even thinking about it, his hands inch down to the front of his shorts.

“ _Hey_ ,” Jack says, voice suddenly stern and cutting through the fog of Rhys’s arousal like a knife. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

Rhys’s heart absolutely drops, his entire body frozen. “N-no, sir.”

Jack’s voice is hard when he says, “Damn right, I didn’t. Hands behind your back, _now_.”

Rhys whines pitifully and complies. He hears the slide of Jack’s belt through its loops, and part of him is glad he can’t see the look on Jack’s face. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Yeah, I bet you are,” Jack says cruelly as he leans over Rhys to secure the belt around his wrists, and Rhys hears him rolling the desk chair over and taking a seat. “You were doing so well, kitten. Now,” he pauses, settling into his chair, “you get to clean my boots. And keep your hands where they belong this time.”

Rhys swallows and hesitates for maybe a second, but ultimately leans forward, hands behind his back as his lips search for Jack’s boots. He finds them just as the plug shifts again to press against his prostate and he moans loudly, barely muffled by the leather.

Jack growls, “Get to work, kitten,” and Rhys does, tongue peeking out to lick at the leather; he knows which boots they are immediately when his tongue runs over rough laces. They’re black combat boots, and Rhys knows if his mouth follows them up, they’ll reach nearly halfway up Jack’s calf, and he groans at the thought. He lays kisses down the side of them and nips at the laces before sweeping his tongue over the leather, tasting mostly dust, and it should be disgusting and it is but _god_ , Rhys doesn’t think he’s ever been so hard in his life. Jack lifts his foot to nudge Rhys over to the other boot, and Rhys groans before starting over again there. By the time the second boot is clean his hips are shifting and he’s clenching around the plug inside of him, and he finds himself whimpering out a “ _Daddy, please.”_

“Shit, Rhys,” Jack swears quietly under his breath, hooking his index finger into the ring hanging from Rhys’s collar to pull him up while standing and shoving his chair back all in one motion. He pulls on the ring and crushes their lips together, Jack’s tongue moving insistently against his. Rhys groans and accepts it, his arms tightly secured behind his back and his hips bucking against nothing.

Jack pulls away, sliding a hand into Rhys’s hair. He feels Jack’s cock on his face, the wet head tracing Rhys’s lips, pre-come smearing steadily along his cheek. Rhys whines at the feeling, and Jack’s voice is hoarse when he says, “Tell me what you want.”

Rhys licks his lips, tasting Jack’s pre-come. “Want your cock, sir. Want it in my mouth.” Finally Jack pushes his cock past Rhys’s lips, settling thick and heavy on his tongue. Both groan at the feeling, Rhys tonguing the head, tasting sticky, salty pre-come, dipping into the slit for more. Jack curls a finger under the blindfold, warning Rhys before he removes it, allowing him to adjust to the light before using the hand in his hair to tip his head back just enough for Rhys to be able to make eye contact.

“Fuck, kiddo,” he groans, and Rhys secures his lips around the head of Jack’s cock, hollowing his cheeks as he licks along the underside. “Have I ever told you how good you look with my dick in your mouth?” he says with a breathless chuckle, and if Rhys’s mouth wasn’t full, his answer would be yes. He takes Jack deeper into his mouth, preens at the way Jack gasps quietly, then pulls back again, tightening his lips to pull Jack’s foreskin over the head, then dips his tongue in to lick along the slit again.

Jack groans long and low, hips bucking and pushing himself further into Rhys’s mouth. “Your fucking _mouth,_ kitten, so good. Such a perfect little cockslut for me, aren’t you?” Rhys can’t help the way he moans, then, his left wrist aching behind his back with how tightly his robotic hand grips it. His hips move but he finds no relief anywhere, only the sweet press of the plug when he pushes back, and only the tease of his shorts brushing against his dick when he pushes forward. He keeps his cheeks hollowed, keeps his tongue moving, keeps his eyes on Jack’s.

Rhys hisses when Jack tugs on his hair again, this time pulling Rhys’s mouth completely off, the tip of his cock still resting on Rhys’s lower lip. “Gimme a color, sugar,” and Rhys rasps “Fuck, fucking _green, green, green._ ” Jack grins predatorily. “Good. Daddy’s gonna fuck your mouth now.” Rhys’s only response is to open his mouth wider, relax his jaw, and breathe deeply through his nose. Jack puts both hands on Rhys’s head and quickly plunges his cock back into Rhys’s mouth, the head bumping the back of his throat before pulling back out and repeating, his balls slapping against Rhys’s chin with each thrust forward.

“Don’t choke,” Jack says quickly, breathlessly, before pressing his cock as far back into Rhys’s throat as possible and holding there, the thick, dark curls at the base tickling Rhys’s nose. As if by order alone, Rhys does not choke, the muscles of his throat relaxing around Jack.

“ _Fuck,”_ Jack grunts, holding Rhys’s head to his pelvis for another second before pulling out completely, hand in Rhys’s hair tipping his head back again as he begins jerking himself quickly. “Ready?” he asks on an outgoing breath. 

Rhys opens his mouth, still gasping for breath, his tongue lolling out over his lower lip. “Yeah, gimme,” he says, out of breath as he licks his lips quickly. “C’mon, I want it. _Please._ ”

He opens his mouth wide again and Jack’s breath hitches; the first spurt of his come shoots out onto the bridge of Rhys’s nose, some landing in his hair, and Jack lets out a grunt that softens into a long, drawn out sigh. He strokes himself slowly as his come continues to shoot onto Rhys’s flushed cheek, on his upper lip, on his waiting tongue. Rhys hums contentedly as Jack draws out the last few spurts, dribbling out over his fist. He closes his mouth for a moment to swallow what’s there before leaning forward to lick Jack’s fingers clean, then gently running his tongue over the remnants on the head of his cock.

Jack sighs and pulls his hips back, looking down at Rhys’s face, striped beautifully with his come, and the flush still high on his cheeks as he pants, his hips still moving desperately against nothing.

 “Jack,” Rhys rasps, his eyes wet and glassy, and Jack grins wickedly. “ _Please._ ”

 Jack runs a hand through Rhys’s hair again, sliding one booted foot forward between Rhys’s legs, tipping the toe up to nudge under Rhys’s balls. Rhys’s hips buck at the contact, and Jack laughs, saying, “You know what to do, princess.”

 And Rhys does. He scoots forward desperately with a whine, hands still bound behind his back, until the wet front of his shorts comes into contact with the tight laces of Jack’s boot. With a moan he begins rutting, pressing his dick against the leather and laces, mewling steadily as he rests his head on Jack’s thigh. Jack tips the toe up again to tap against the base of the plug once, twice, three times before he holds it there, pressing it deeper, and Rhys’s entire body jerks, a sob erupting from his throat.

 “I’ve got you, kitten,” Jack says quietly, petting Rhys’s hair. “You gonna come for me?” Rhys nods frantically, mouth open and drooling onto Jack’s pants. “Good, you’ve earned it,” Jack continues. “Such a good boy for me, Rhys.” Rhys’s thrusts grow more frantic until his hips still as he comes, finally, in his shorts, letting out a quiet gasp. The tears in his eyes spill over with his orgasm and he laughs breathlessly as it washes over him, sounding somewhat hysterical.

 He’s still giggling a bit as Jack, having done up his pants again, bends to undo the belt around Rhys’s wrists, dropping it onto the floor and working his thumbs into the indented skin. Jack carefully helps him bring his arms forward again, Rhys’s giggling ending suddenly as he whines in discomfort, and tucks his hands into Rhys’s underarms. “I’m gonna pull you up now. Think you can stand?” Rhys only shrugs in response. When Jack does pull him up, Rhys hisses at the pain in his legs, and Jack quickly gets one arm behind his back and one behind his knees, lifting him and carrying him over to the couch, laying him down.

 Before he can even stand again, Rhys is reaching for him, grabbing at his shirt and muttering his name as tears fill his eyes again. Jack immediately lies down on the couch with him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and middle as Rhys presses his face into his chest and sobs quietly, occasionally interrupted by a short burst of laughter. Jack rubs circles into his back and tells Rhys that he’ll be alright, tells him how well he did, tells him that “You’re such a good boy, Rhys, you’re _my_ good boy, right?” and when Rhys nods, he continues, “Yeah, you are. All mine. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

 When Rhys eventually stops crying and catches his breath, Jack looks down at his dazed face and asks, “Rhysie, you gonna be okay for a few minutes while I get some things?” Rhys nods sleepily, burrowing into the couch as Jack untangles himself from his long limbs. Jack returns in only a few minutes as promised, his arms full, and sets the things down on the floor by the couch. He puts a hand to the back of Rhys’s neck, beckoning him to lift his head, and presses an open bottle of water to his lips. Jack hums encouragingly as he downs half the bottle. “Good. Can you open up for me again?” Rhys does, dutifully, and Jack places a square of dark chocolate on his tongue, tipping his mouth closed. “Just let it melt,” he says quietly, and Rhys hums at the bittersweet flavor melting on his tongue.

Jack keeps a hand on his chin while he reaches for something else. “I’m gonna clean you up now, ‘kay pumpkin?” Rhys tries his best to nod, and Jack runs a wet washcloth over his hair and face, pressing against his skin in some spots to scrub away the remnants of drying come. He tugs on Rhys’s soaked shorts, dragging them gingerly down his long legs, and cleans him there too, damp cloth wiping at his spent dick, at his lower stomach and his hips, at the sticky moisture still clinging to his thighs.

Jack pulls him into a sitting position and Rhys grumbles. “Raise your arms for me, sweetheart,” Jack says quietly as he tugs the Hyperion sweatshirt up and off Rhys’s torso. He tosses the shirt aside and reaches for the unlock tool, quickly and carefully detaching Rhys’s arm, which he rests on the desk across the room. He nudges Rhys’s head forward to get at the padlock on the back of his collar, opening it and carefully slipping the whole thing off Rhys’s neck. Rhys frowns, his left hand coming up to scratch at his bare neck. Jack sits on the floor and uncaps a bottle, pouring something onto his hands and rubbing them together before he reaches for Rhys’s arm. Rhys holds it out and Jack takes his wrist in both hands, thumbs circling and pressing what smells like lavender oil into the delicate skin. Rhys sighs, and Jack moves on to his legs, massaging the muscles of his thighs and calves, Rhys wincing at the pain in his knees when he stretches his legs out.

By the time Jack’s hands reach his ankles, Rhys is feeling more lucid but no less sleepy, his head lolling on the back of the couch. Jack rests his hands on Rhys’s ankles, tapping to get his attention, and Rhys looks down at him, a small, fond smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he takes in the uncharacteristic softness of Jack’s unmasked face: the glasses perched on his nose, his mussed hair, the unguarded way he looks up at Rhys.

“You wanna nap here or go to bed?”

Rhys shrugs but takes Jack’s hand as he lies out on the couch cushions, pulling him down with him. Jack chuckles and undresses completely, lying down with Rhys and tugging a blanket off the back of the couch to cover them, getting an arm around his shoulders while Rhys nuzzles into the crook of his neck. He slots a leg between Rhys’s, curling around the back of his knee, and Rhys hums contentedly at the feel of Jack’s flaccid dick resting against his thigh, soft and warm. He thinks back to the Jack he woke up to a few hours ago, tense and guarded and craving control; he knows that when they wake up Jack will be back to his usual snarky self, but still, he can’t help the warm feeling that blooms in his chest now.

Sleepily, he mumbles, “You feeling better now?”

If he could see Jack’s face, he’d see the way his eyes widen in surprise at the question, glancing down at the bruises forming on Rhys’s wrist. Still, he laughs quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of Rhys’s head.

“Yeah, cupcake. I’m feeling much better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come harass me on [Tumblr](http://michaelandthegodsquad.tumblr.com/) and find out how you can get me to write stuff for you.
> 
> Also: kudos to you if you spotted the continuity mistake. You'll be rewarded for it soon. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


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